


All That We See or Seem

by IamShadow21



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Books, Delusions, Dessert & Sweets, Friendship, Gen, Gift Fic, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Hospitalization, Mindfuck, Minor Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Harry, Post-Battle, Recovery, Remus Lupin Lives, Stuck in a Dream, Winner: Quidditch Pitch Editor's Choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-29
Updated: 2008-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry collapses after seeing his children off on the Hogwarts Express. When he awakes, things aren't as they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Parting From You Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tailoredshirt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tailoredshirt/gifts).



> Manages to be absolutely and utterly DH and Epilogue-compliant, while being terrifically AU at the same time. Bit of a mindfuck.
> 
> Picks up exactly where the Epilogue leaves off.
> 
> Chapter headings and title belong to Poe. Though he wasn't the inspiration for this story, he sure fits nicely.
> 
> Happy Belated Birthday [tailoredshirt](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com)!
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience while this story was being written. I hope it's a worthy gift. *squishes you*
> 
>  

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry collapses after seeing his children off on the Hogwarts Express. When he awakes, things aren't as they were.

_All was well._

Indeed, everything was grand. That was, until things went a little blurry around the edges.

Harry staggered, and wondered idly why Ginny was just watching him fall and smiling like she hadn’t a care in the world. He reached out his hand to her, called her name, but then it seemed to go a bit dark, and the rushing in his ears distorted the voices yammering around him until they were almost impossible to hear. The ground underneath his shoulder was hard, and his head like _hell_ – but of course, it had been hurting like that for a long time, hadn’t it? Not just his scar, but all over, like it was trapped in a vice, being squeezed ever tighter.

Another space of darkness, and then everything was softer. Softer sounds, softer lights, and layer upon layer of fabric wound round and round him, like a cocoon. Voices still surrounded him, but they were hushed, only the sharp S sounds reaching him clearly, shishes and shushes in rhythmic patterns, like wind rushing over wheat.

And then, Harry opened his eyes. 

He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t see, save for vague, smudged outlines. He wanted water, but lacked the energy to sit up enough to find any. The face that suddenly bent over his broke into a brilliant smile.

“I’m dead,” Harry told the familiar person, with absolute certainty, in a cracked and dry voice that sounded utterly unlike his own.

The man quirked an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Well _you_ certainly are,” Harry retorted. “I saw your body.”

“Drink,” said Remus Lupin, pressing a glass to Harry’s lips.

***

“Do you know what day it is?” Madam Pomfrey asked. She was a white-clothed shape in soft focus, standing over him. Though he’d asked for his glasses several times, he hadn’t yet been given them.

Harry huffed in irritation. “Of course I do!”

“Well?” she prompted.

Harry fumbled. He _knew_ that he knew what day it was. He was sure he did. He scanned the room for a visual clue, and came up blank. “I don’t want to tell you,” he retorted, childishly. “Where is my wife?”

Madam Pomfrey shook her head and clucked her tongue, making a small mark on Harry’s chart with her quill. “Potions time, Mr Potter. Potions _before_ visitors.”

Harry took the draught she handed him. He didn’t recognise the taste of Dreamless Sleep until he’d swallowed it, and by then, it was too late.

***

“I wish you’d stop haunting me,” Harry told Remus, peevishly.

Remus was sitting at his bedside, yet again. He was wearing a blue cardigan that was many times mended, thin at the elbows, the pockets stretched wide and loose. He used to keep novels in them, Harry recalled. Old, dog-eared hardbacks that he’d bought second-hand, with faded cloth covers and yellowed pages that smelled of dust and ancient pipe smoke. Remus would keep notes in the margins, too; faintly inscribed in pencil in a neat, miniscule hand. They often had titles in foreign languages; Greek or German or French. The thick volume in his hand right now looked like it might be Russian, from the indecipherable, almost Runic, symbols that were stamped across the cover in flaking gold-leaf - Доктор Живаго.

Remus gave him a wry smile. “Don’t you like seeing me, Harry?”

“Well, yes,” Harry admitted, helplessly. “But everybody’s going to think I’m mad, talking to you all day. And what about Tonks? Isn’t she lonely?”

Remus shook his head. “Don’t worry about Tonks,” he said soothingly. “She’s got her hands full, watching over Teddy.”

“I suppose Fred is with George, then, and Snape is brooding about his dungeon,” Harry guessed, trying to get a grasp on this new, puzzling existence.

“Naturally,” Remus said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

When Harry then asked if Remus was his guardian angel, Remus just laughed.

***

“Why am I here?” Harry asked Madam Pomfrey.

“You’ve been unwell, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey answered. “Do you remember?”

“I remember I fell over,” Harry began slowly. Madam Pomfrey nodded encouragingly. “I remember noise, and loud voices, and pain in my head.”

“Very good,” Madam Pomfrey said approvingly. “The Weasley boys and Miss Granger brought you to me as quickly as they possibly could.”

Harry wondered why she didn’t mention Ginny, but maybe Ginny had taken Lily and Hugo home with her. But then...

“Am I at Hogwarts?” Harry asked, completely confused.

Madam Pomfrey gave him a genuine smile. “Indeed you are!” She scribbled something furiously on her clipboard, then moved along to the next bed.

Harry couldn’t understand why his friends would have taken him all the way to _Scotland_ when St. Mungo’s was right there in London, but perhaps Madam Pomfrey was an expert at treating whatever ailed him.

This newfound knowledge relaxed him a little, and he took his evening potions as meekly as a lamb.

***

Remus’ cardigan was green today. Not a bright, spring green, but a dull sage that reminded Harry of faded curtains, and the dried herbs he’d crushed into a fine powder with his pestle in Potions classes. When Remus noticed Harry was awake, he hastily slipped his latest battered volume into his pocket. Harry only caught one of the words on the front, Nabokov, before it was tucked away out of sight. Harry didn’t know whether it was the title or the author’s name, only noting that it sounded Russian, and that Remus looked a little guilty when Harry met his eyes.

“I’m not dead, am I?” Harry finally asked.

Remus shook his head.

“But you! You’re not supposed to be here,” Harry insisted, distressed. “I dropped it in the Forest. You should have... moved on, or something.”

Remus looked perplexed, and a little worried. “I’ve upset you, I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I should probably...”

Remus stood up to leave, and without thinking of what he was doing, Harry reached out and caught his sleeve to stop him.

Caught Remus’ sleeve. 

It was solid, and warm, and woollen-scratchy beneath his fingertips.

“You’re alive,” Harry breathed. “I... I don’t... How?”

“The only reason anybody survives a war,” Remus answered. “Luck, or the lack of it.”

Harry stared at him, speechless, for a long moment, before swallowing hard and averting his eyes. “My head hurts,” he whispered.

“I’ll get you a potion,” Remus said softly, and left, his shoes scuffing slightly on the tiled floor.


	2. All That We See or Seem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes or his mind; Harry doesn't know which to believe.

Harry couldn’t sleep that night. He feigned it, when Madam Pomfrey did her final rounds, but once the last light was doused and all was silent in the ward, he fumbled in the little bedside cabinet. There, there it was. His hand closed around a familiar length of wood. 

A softly murmured _Lumos_ , and the rest of the drawer’s contents were revealed. His glasses, bent and misshapen, cracks spiderwebbing one lens, were the first thing he took out. He repaired them, but he felt the effort noticeably, as though the magic used had hollowed him out a little, like a ball of wool being unwound from within. His hands trembled as he slid the glasses onto his face. The immediate area leapt into comforting focus; just a bed, with covers rising and falling in hills over his torso, hips and legs, the cabinet, and the deep shadows beyond. It wasn’t much, but having his glasses on made him feel a bit less lost.

In the drawer he could see the telltale signs of Remus’ presence; a half-eaten block of Honeydukes chocolate (the end of the wrapper neatly folded closed) and a couple of books. The books were Muggle, by the looks of them; one, a cheap modern paperback that looked relatively new, the other, an older, medium-sized hardback. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book for pleasure. He knew he _must_ have, surely, at some point not that long ago, but when he reached for the memory of sitting with an open book on his lap, reading just for the sake of reading itself, all he could think of was reading things like _Flying With the Cannons_ and _Quidditch Through the Ages_ years ago, back when he was in school.

He picked up the smaller, newer book, something called _The Turn of the Screw_. He hadn’t been reading it long, however, before he discarded it. It wasn’t new, after all, but a reprint of an older work. The language was odd; formal and dry, and the story left him confused and frightened by turns, and decidedly uneasy. 

The other book, _The Ring-Givers_ , grabbed him more immediately. This was a tale of adventure, of small and friendless Helmwulf, who taught himself to be a mighty warrior by wrestling trees and throwing stones. Though he skimmed a little over the battle scenes (the grisly deaths reminded him of the always too-immediate past), Harry was drawn into the story. Through the long hours, the only sounds were the steady rhythm of his breath, the creaks of bedsteads as other patients turned in their sleep, and the soft turning of the pages beneath his fingertips.

When he fell asleep not long before dawn, it was into dreams of dust, shouts and screams that he tumbled, overlaid with the copper tang of blood hanging in the air. He could hear people calling his name, but as he dug through the piles of broken stone around him, all he found were anonymous dead, dressed in black, their cold lips accusing him of murder, without speech, without movement.

***

Harry heard Remus talk briefly to Madam Pomfrey in a low murmur before he appeared around the end of the screen. He had a book half out of his pocket already, but he replaced it when he saw Harry sitting up.

“Good morning,” Remus said. His eyes flicked to the books, which Harry had left openly on the top of the cabinet.

“I ate your chocolate,” Harry confessed, unabashed. “I’ll buy you more.”

Remus grinned and flapped a hand, indicating it wasn’t important. “Since you’re awake, we might as well do this sooner, rather than later,” he began. “How would you like to take a short stroll with me? Specifically, to the lovely, if tiny, bathroom at the end of the ward? Madam Pomfrey says it’s time you started moving about a bit, and I thought you might like a proper bath.”

Harry felt his face flush with colour. “You’re going to wash me?” he asked, embarrassed.

“Not unless you need me to,” Remus clarified. “I’ll just help you walk there, and climb in and out of the tub, that kind of thing. You can even ask me to leave the room, if you like, though it’s probably safer if I sit nearby, just in case.”

Harry swallowed. It would be good to feel clean again. Though Madam Pomfrey had charms she used on patients who were bed-bound, it wasn’t the same as a proper scrub with hot, soapy water. “Okay, then,” he agreed.

The journey from his bed to the bathroom was relatively short, but Harry was leaning heavily on Remus and panting by the time he’d completed it. He allowed Remus to help him undress without protest; he was too busy leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths and trying to stop the world from spinning to bother with feeling self-conscious. When Remus picked him up and lifted him into the bath, he decided that between this and using a bedpan in the presence of Madam Pomfrey, he’d lost pretty much all of his dignity anyway, and he might as well just enjoy the hot water.

“Don’t duck your head under,” Remus warned. “You can wash your face, but leave your hair for another time, all right?”

Harry nodded, allowing himself to fully relax and sink a little deeper into the bubbles. Aches he didn’t know he had were easing, and he let out a sigh of contentment. He didn’t know when he’d last had the chance at a soak like this, but he suspected it had been far too long. He jumped when Remus touched him on the shoulder what felt like less than a minute later.

“You were nodding off,” Remus explained kindly. “How about you finish up, and we’ll see if you can manage a shave before you have to lie down again.”

Harry soaped and rinsed himself quickly. He wasn’t _really_ dirty, after all, but it felt nice to do it. His limbs were heavy and clumsy when he got out, so he ended up just standing still, holding on to Remus’ shoulders and hips while Remus towelled him dry and helped him into his clothing with gentle but impersonal efficiency.

“Are you up for that shave, or are you ready for bed?” Remus asked, as he carefully fastened the last of Harry’s buttons.

Harry was incredibly tired, but when he ran a hand along his jaw line, he could feel the thickening stubble. It felt like a short, somewhat patchy beard. “Shave,” he decided.

They positioned themselves in front of the mirror, Harry leaning back against Remus’s chest for balance. Harry reached out for the razor, but right at that moment, Remus spelled the mirror clear of steam. That was when Harry started to scream.

Remus held Harry up, held him tightly, even as Harry struggled and fought to get away. In some detached part of his brain he felt an uncanny sense of _déjà vu_ , only this time, the sight that was distressing him so much wasn’t his godfather falling through the Veil, it was his own reflection.

Harry could distantly hear Remus calling out to Madam Pomfrey through the door that they were all right, then murmuring a constant stream of reassurance in Harry’s ear, but Harry couldn’t understand a word, couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror.

A white face, pinched and ill-looking, stared back at him with frightened eyes. The cheeks were slightly hollowed, as though he were underfed. Dark shadows sat under his eyes, and there was a white strip of shorter hair amongst the black on his head, as though it had been shaved and grown back the wrong colour. A soft downy beard had grown across his jaw, chin and upper throat, thin and wispy, but even it couldn’t disguise the fact that the face that stared back at him belonged to someone no older than eighteen.

Finally, he succumbed to exhaustion and went limp in Remus’ arms. “What’s happened to me?” he panted. “Where _is_ everybody? Where’s Ginny? _Where’s my wife?_ ”

Remus started to say something, but a loud rushing sound, like a train, or an explosion in slow motion, blotted out his words, and everything went grey, then black.


	3. You Are Not Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions asked and answers given in the dead of night.

It was dark when Harry opened his eyes. Dark, but not the complete black he had grown accustomed to seeing when he awoke at night in the ward. Remus was sitting beside him, reading what appeared to be _Through the Looking Glass_ , by the light of a small jar of Bluebell flames.

“You’re just taking the piss, now,” Harry whispered.

Remus appeared confused, until Harry gestured at the open book.

“Oh. Well, I had to find _something_ appropriate, and the Library’s copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ has been missing since nineteen-seventy-six,” he quipped. “James and Sirius stole it, to find and giggle over what they called, “the rude bits”. I think they were a bit disappointed, really. It was too subtle for their tastes. Barbarians,” he declared mildly, and with no small amount of fondness.

“What did they do with it?” Harry asked.

“It found a good home,” Remus said, evasively.

“You _stole_ it! Stole a _library book!_ ” Harry accused in a scandalised tone. It wasn’t the act so much as the perpetrator which shocked him.

“ _Rescued_ it from unworthy heathens,” Remus corrected, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “and from being tossed in the Lake, or worse.”

They were dancing around the topic that was on both their minds; making light of it as though it wasn’t important, even though Harry knew it was the key to _everything_.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked abruptly. “It’s late.”

The flippant conversation had ended, and Remus’ bright smile subsided when he noticed Harry’s sudden change of mood. He closed his book and placed it on the cabinet.

“After your... scare earlier, I asked if I could stay,” Remus confessed. “I didn’t want you waking in the middle of the night, alone and frightened. The Full Moon is close, so I’d be up, regardless.”

Harry took a deep breath and plunged ahead, unable to hold back, even though he knew the answer would upset him. “I want to know what’s going on,” Harry said, drawing a looping pattern on his bed sheets with a finger. “What’s wrong with me? Why do I look so young?”

“What year do you think this is, Harry?” Remus asked, and Harry was reminded of Madam Pomfrey’s relentless questions – _What day is it? Can you tell me your mother’s name? Which subjects you chose for your OWLs?_

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. He should have been able to work it out, but it eluded him.

“It’s nineteen-ninety-eight,” Remus said, gently.

Harry shook his head violently, and felt a throb of pain in his temples at the sharp movement. “But I’ve been married for _years!_ My children...”

“I’m afraid there’s no easy way to tell you this,” Remus said with a heavy sigh, before continuing in a slow, measured voice. “You don’t have any children, Harry. You’re not married.”

“But I remember it! _I saw it!_ ” Harry insisted. Remus had just fractured his reality so abruptly he felt he should be shouting, but his words came out in a hoarse whisper, disbelieving and fragile.

“I’m sorry,” Remus said, and he truly did look it, his warm, light brown eyes filled with regret.

“I saw it,” Harry repeated numbly. He stared blankly at his hands, his _teenaged_ hands, as they lay on the covers. But even as he protested, when he thought back, what he had seen _did_ seem a little impossible, like a bright and happy dream. He could remember the train platform, but when he tried to reach for other things, they just weren’t there. He knew he was an Auror, but he couldn’t remember ever working as one, or training to be one. He remembered the feel of a wedding ring around his finger, but when he tried to remember the wedding itself, there was just a blank where it should have been. And his children seemed to exist only in their early adolescent forms. Seeing them born, hearing their first words, birthdays, Christmases together; it was all gone, gone, gone.

Or it had never happened in the first place, and his mind, not the world, was the liar.

“How...?” he began to ask, but he couldn’t quite find the words. Remus answered, nevertheless.

“You were injured in combat, several weeks ago. There was an explosion; a Curse destroyed a section of wall that you were standing next to.”

Harry thought back frantically. “Fred,” Harry said. “That was when Fred died.”

“He’s not dead, Harry,” Remus corrected. 

“But I heard Percy screaming his name, over and over,” Harry argued.

“Fred was buried in the rubble, as you were,” Remus said. “He was injured, yes, but not killed.”

“Voldemort-?”

“ _Is_ dead. Very much so,” Remus said firmly.

“Did I die?” Harry asked, suddenly frightened. “At all? Even for a little while?”

“No. You got a nasty bump on the head, but you didn’t – Harry?”

Harry looked wildly about the room before reaching out to snatch up his wand from the cabinet. Remus grabbed Harry’s wrist in an unyielding grip, and peeled his fingers one by one from the length of wood. “I want you to calm down, Harry,” Remus said slowly, “and tell me exactly what’s troubling you.” The words were kind, but Harry heard the iron beneath them, and suspected that Remus would put him in a Full Body Bind were he to try to wrest his wand back.

“You have to kill me, Remus! It’s the only way,” Harry begged. “Please! I know you’ll make it quick. Do it now.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Harry,” Remus said in that same, cool, even tone. He still hadn’t released Harry’s wrist, despite the fact that he’d tucked Harry’s wand away out of reach.

“You _have_ to,” Harry said. “He’ll come back otherwise. I’m a Horcrux.”

Remus flinched briefly at the word, but his gaze sharpened on Harry’s face. “Who told you that?” he asked, his body poised and still, but alert, as though he were a predator ready to pounce.

“I...” Harry began, before he realised – no one _had_ told him. Snape’s memories in the Pensieve, Dumbledore on King’s Cross Station... If Remus was telling the truth, then _none of that had happened_.

“Hermione told me that the three of you had been searching for them, but she _never_ mentioned that you thought...” Remus looked aghast at the idea. “Listen to me, Harry. You are _not_ and _never have been_ a Horcrux.”

“But how can you tell?” Harry asked, ashamed at how pathetic he sounded.

“A Horcrux is a Dark Object of the highest order, Harry,” Remus explained patiently. “Do you think you could move amongst wizards so freely for so many years, without someone noticing? Go in and out of the Ministry, of the Auror Department, of the _Wizengamot itself_ , without setting off the alarms? Spend time in close company with experts on the Dark Arts like Alastor Moody and Bill Weasley, without either of them suspecting? Needless to say, Madam Pomfrey would have noticed right away, the moment she first tried to patch you up. Dark Magic and Curses affect the body, and even if the symptoms aren’t in plain sight, a Mediwitch or Wizard can detect them. If she runs a regular diagnostic Spell on _me_ , for example, it practically _screams_ ‘werewolf’.”

Put like _that_ , it did seem a bit ridiculous, but Harry was still frowning and biting his lip, uncertainly. “What if it’s just really _deep_ , or something?”

“If it would set your mind at ease, I can perform the Charm myself,” Remus offered. “I’m not as precise at it as Poppy, but anything out of the ordinary should be obvious, even to me.”

Harry nodded, and Remus released his wrist to draw his own wand. He stood, rolled his sleeves back, and ran the wand slowly up Harry’s body, starting at his toes. Almost immediately, there were a small series of soft chimes.

“That’s your mother’s Blood Protection, and the Healing Charms and potions from the last few weeks,” Remus explained. “Because they affect your whole body, they show up first.”

Remus continued meticulously scanning. The charm proved remarkably sensitive, triggering over the scar on Harry’s arm from Pettigrew’s knife, and over his heart where the locket had hung, on and off, for months.

“You _wore_ it? Knowing what it was?” Remus asked, horrified, when Harry explained what the Dark residue there might be.

When Harry just shrugged, ashamed, Remus muttered something about the inadequacy of the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts syllabus. “I might have thought at least _Hermione_ would have had enough common sense not to wear a Dark object. Or _Ron_ , after seeing what that diary did to his sister,” Remus continued. “You’re lucky one of you didn’t end up becoming fully possessed and murdering the other two in their sleep. ‘Fools and little children’, indeed,” he finished, shaking his head.

Harry was opening his mouth to retort, when Remus reached his head, and a much longer chain of sounds was emitted. His heart suddenly began beat very quickly.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Remus said calmly. “ _Propono_.”

A short list in glowing letters appeared in mid air.

“I can’t read it,” Harry complained.

“It’s Latin,” Remus said, “and it’s in order of severity. That first one, with the subheadings, that’s the most immediate problem. It’s your head injury from the explosion, and the problems you’re experiencing because of it; dizziness, headaches, confusion, and so on. Below that, there’s the faint curse residue from the original attack when you were an infant, centred around your scar, which isn’t really unexpected, and lastly, your myopia.”

When Harry looked blank at the final item, Remus elaborated. “Your poor eyesight.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “No Horcrux, then?”

“None whatsoever.”

Harry opened his mouth to make a joke, something along the lines of, _Well, I suppose I’d rather you didn’t kill me, then_ , but was startled when a choked sob emerged, instead. His throat hurt, and his eyes smarted with tears. He bunched his fists in the bedclothes, drawing in deep, gasping breaths, trying to regain control.

Remus flicked his wand, casting a silent _Muffliato_ , and then sat next to Harry on the narrow bed and pulled him close. “Let it out,” he said, gently.

Harry felt the fragile dam within him break, and he sobbed into Remus’ scratchy cardigan so hard he thought he would never stop. Eventually, though, he did.

“I want to see Ron and Hermione. And Ginny,” Harry mumbled, when he’d cried himself out.

“We’ll see what Madam Pomfrey says,” Remus answered. “I’ll talk to her in the morning. Now sleep.”

Harry nestled into the curve of Remus’ arm and drifted off, as Remus again picked up the tale of a girl who went on a fantastic journey, only to find, when she returned, that no time had passed at all.

That night, Harry slept too deeply for dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Propono** \- display, publish, relate, tell, propose, promise_  
>  OR _\- to design, point out_


	4. I Stand Amid The Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes getting the answers you seek just leaves you feeling more lost than before.

Two days later, not long after lunch, Hermione and Ron crept around the divider. 

Harry immediately marked his place in _The Ring-Givers_ and set it aside on the cabinet. (Remus had discovered Harry had folded a corner the day he’d begun reading it. Though Remus hadn’t said anything, he had looked so pained that Harry felt like he’d wounded a child. A worn, tooled-leather bookmark had appeared between the leaves the following day. Neither of them had remarked upon it since.)

Hermione sank into the empty chair and gave him the fixed smile and soft, earnest “How _are_ you?” that hospital visitors the world over use, regardless of whether someone is on death’s doorstep or has just had their tonsils removed. Ron smiled apologetically. 

They both looked ridiculously young.

“I’m okay,” Harry said, with a forced smile of his own. “How’s Remus?”

“He’s fine, mate,” Ron answered quickly. “Tonks sent Mum an owl this morning, first thing. He’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”

Harry nodded, and tried to stop himself twisting the edge of the bed sheet between his fingers, nervously. He’d wanted to see his friends, but now that they were here, he wanted Remus back, and he felt guilty about it. He hadn’t realised how much he’d come to depend upon Remus in this ‘new’ world, where nothing was reliable. Even on the worst of days, it seemed, Remus was there, with his books and his chocolate and his assortment of worn out cardigans.

However, having Ron and Hermione visiting today meant that he had an opportunity he hadn’t, before, and it was too important to waste.

“I need to know what happened,” he said firmly. Hermione flinched a little, Ron shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t know that Madam Pomfrey would-” Hermione began.

“Remus has been talking to me about it, the last few days,” he reassured her. “It’s just... He wasn’t there. You were. I want to hear it from you.”

Hermione looked a little less worried, but no more comfortable. “Harry, are you _sure_ you’re ready?”

“I _need_ to know,” Harry repeated. “Ron, please...”

Ron was hovering at the foot of the bed, looking pale and anxious. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He moved around the other side of the bed and sat on the edge of it, next to Harry. “Sorry... It’s just... You don’t know what it’s been like,” he said, softly, looking at his hands. “They didn’t even know if you’d _live_ for the first few days. After that it was over a week before they told us that they thought you’d get back to normal, eventually.”

That his injury had been so grave was news to Harry, but he managed to control his expression.

“And with Dad, and with Fred, and everything else going on, it’s just been a bit difficult. We’ll tell you, just give us a minute, yeah?” Ron continued.

Harry’s hand gripped the sheet tighter. “Your Dad?” he asked faintly. “Is he...?”

The heart-clenching fear must have shown on his face, because Hermione hastened to reassure him that Arthur was back at work now, nothing to worry about.

“I thought Fred was dead,” Harry admitted. “I must have heard Percy calling out his name, just after it happened. That’s why you have to tell me. I don’t know who’s alive and who’s... not. I don’t know what’s real.”

The hour that followed was painful and slow, for all three of them. In subdued voices, Ron and Hermione related the events that had unfolded after the explosion that had come so close to ending Harry’s life.

While the battle raged around them, they had Levitated boulders and dug through loose rubble with their bare hands. Fred had been fairly lightly covered for the most part, and although he was groggy, he hadn’t been knocked out altogether. The problem with getting him out had been his leg, which had been pinned by a section of wall that had fallen down, but stayed together in a large slab. It had taken the combined Levitation spells of Percy, Ron and Hermione to move it enough for Fred to free himself. Harry had been buried deeper, but was easier to extricate. His head was bleeding alarmingly, and his breathing was irregular and shallow. At one point, while they were working to uncover his lower limbs, he’d had an epileptic seizure. 

“At first, when you twitched a bit, we thought you were waking up, or reacting to the Dementors swarming outside,” Hermione related in a tight voice, “but then your arms started flailing about, and I knew what was happening.”

Ron, being closest, had followed Hermione’s directions and cushioned Harry’s poor broken head from further damage, while Percy and Hermione had acted as soft barriers, stopping Harry’s body from striking the hard, jagged stone scattered around. Fred, unable to walk, was doing as best he could to cover them from attack, with Percy’s wand and a broken leg.

They had ended up holed up in a classroom. Ron had remembered the spell Remus had used in the Shrieking Shack, and they had set Fred’s leg as best they could. Harry’s seizure had ended, but they started to worry about blood loss, and the fact that he’d been unconscious for so long without stirring. Now that Fred could move about (albeit slowly) with the aid of a crutch he’d Transfigured from the leg of a desk, they made the difficult decision to attempt to get to the Hospital Wing. 

“We thought, well, even if Madam Pomfrey wasn’t there, there’d be, I dunno, _supplies_ and things,” explained Ron, almost apologetically.

It was on that short but hellish journey, that they saw the first of the bodies. Argus Filch, with neither wand nor magic, hadn’t stood a chance against an armed attacker.

“I hated the bastard,” Ron said dully. “But he didn’t deserve to die.”

Before they reached their destination, they’d seen four more. Three were Death Eaters. The last was Hannah Abbott.

Harry hadn’t always gotten on with Hannah. They’d been friends with different sets of people, and in Harry’s Second and Fourth Years, she’d been almost hostile. But she’d been a good and loyal member of Dumbledore’s Army, and she’d tried her hardest to learn everything he tried to teach her. She’d only produced a corporeal Patronus once, but when the pale but recognisable shape of a dove finally burst from the tip of her wand, she’d been overjoyed.

Harry realised he’d been silent for a while when Hermione pressed a cup of tea into his hand, and as good as ordered him to drink it. He hadn’t even noticed her leave to fetch it.

“We can stop for now, if you need to,” Hermione said, gently. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Just... just finish it,” Harry said, though more than anything what he wanted to do was ask Madam Pomfrey for a Dreamless Sleep Potion and lie with his head under the blanket.

They’d found the door to the Hospital Wing heavily spelled closed and guarded by Professors Vector and Sinistra, and an assortment of students, including Michael Corner and Terry Boot. When the guards had seen how badly injured Harry was, they lowered the wards just long enough to get Harry and Fred inside, before Sealing the door firmly again. 

The Hospital Wing was already so overcrowded that only the injured were permitted entrance, so they decided to go and find George. Although Fred’s bones were knitting as they spoke, George would want to know he’d been injured. And someone, though who knew whom, should be told about Harry.

‘We’ll defend him to our deaths,’ Terry had said, looking fiercer than they’d known was possible for the mild mannered Ravenclaw whose passion for musty old books rivalled Hermione’s.

He and six others had held to true to that.

In the last half hour of the battle, a handful of Death Eaters went looking for Harry, and had assaulted the defences protecting the Hospital Wing, convinced he was hiding inside. They were under orders to bring Potter to the Dark Lord, and they weren’t going to let a couple of teachers and a bunch of kids stop them. What they didn’t know was that Voldemort was already dead – taken down in a ferocious duel by Filius Flitwick and Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

The barricade had held the attackers off until help arrived, but at the cost of seven lives, including Professor Vector’s. Terry had survived the curse that struck him down, but died two days later, without regaining consciousness.

“I... I guess you probably know the rest... right?” Ron asked. 

There was a subtle note of pleading in the question, and Harry could see at a glance that Ron’s hands were shaking a little, and his breathing was shallow. Though Harry still had questions, more he wanted to know, he knew Ron had reached his limit.

“I know enough. Thank you,” he said. 

Ron nodded and let out a long, slow breath, wiping his no-doubt clammy palms on his knees.

“I’m sorry, but I’m a bit tired,” Harry lied.

Harry looked over at Hermione. He knew that she wasn’t fooled, but she immediately said, “Of course. We’ll go; you should rest.”

“Could you tell Madam Pomfrey I need her, on the way out, please?” Harry asked.

“Of course, mate,” Ron said.

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Hermione said, answering the question Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.

“See you then,” Harry replied, not wanting to say ‘goodbye’.

As they walked away, Harry saw Hermione slip an arm around Ron’s waist, and Ron lean into her slightly in response, as though that comfort was the only thing keeping him upright.


	5. Can I Not Grasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's still finding where the line is between dreams and reality.

The hawthorn wand lay on his lap, where he’d dropped it.

He’d woken from his afternoon nap, put on his glasses, and reached for it, automatically. After a year in hiding, he felt better with his wand near, and Madam Pomfrey refused to let him sleep with it under his pillow, as was his habit.

Harry didn’t know what unnerved him more; that he had been using another wizard’s wand, or that he’d gone on for the most part of a week without noticing. Though the pale wood was a similar shade, his holly wand had never been this glossy, even when he had remembered to polish it, and the handle felt strange in his grip. Not wrong, just _different_. 

It looked utterly innocent, like the stick that it was, rather than the implement with which Draco Malfoy had tortured, and possibly killed. With which _he_ had tortured. Harry felt ill.

He held the tip of the wand in one hand, and the handle in the other, and started to bend it. He imagined the woody fibres of the wand bowing as he gradually increased the pressure, imagined them beginning to creak and pop under the strain, until, finally...

Harry put the hawthorn wand back in the drawer. When he woke later that night, he deliberately chose to lie in the dark, lost in his endlessly looping thoughts, rather than giving in and lighting the wand so that he could read.

***

Harry woke up relatively early, the next morning. He slowly shuffled to the bathroom with the assistance of a cane Madam Pomfrey had supplied. It was awkward and unnatural and seemed to hinder his movement as much as help it, but gripping it did give him a sense of stability, and he felt much less naked and vulnerable with it than without it.

He shaved, forcing himself to stare at the face in the mirror, as if by sheer will he could ignore the life that had never been his. His eyes were sad today; not afraid, but resigned and mournful. If that was how he’d looked when Ron and Hermione first saw him, it didn’t surprise him they’d been upset. He experimented with a smile. It looked slightly artificial, but it made him look less like he was fading away from lack of hope. He made a resolution to make an effort to smile as much as he could today; if not for his own sake, then for theirs.

Rather than going back to bed, he sat in the armchair beside it in a dressing gown and slippers, eating toast with honey and drinking milky tea for breakfast. He picked up _The Ring-Givers_ once he’d finished, wondering if he could get through the last thirty pages before his visitors arrived at ten. Much to his surprise, he did, and he sat quietly, unoccupied, for the last half hour or so, just thinking, turning the bookmark over in his hands. He did look in the drawer for something else, but it was empty save for the hawthorn wand. _The Turn of the Screw_ was gone; presumably Remus had taken it with him the day before the change.

Ron and Hermione approached him just as tentatively as before, but when he gave them his biggest and (hopefully) most convincing smile, they visibly relaxed. They had brought a basket of fruit and freshly-baked scones, still warm from the kitchen at the Burrow. Though he’d not long eaten, Harry found he had enough room left to devour one. The fragrant scent of citrus filled the immediate area when Ron pierced the skin of an orange with his thumbnail and began to peel it. 

There was a deck of plain playing cards, too (Exploding Snap Cards being strictly forbidden in the Hospital, for the sake of the other patients’ nerves, and to spare the bed clothes), and they soon settled in to a lively game of Cheat. Time passed much faster than Harry expected it to, and before he knew it, lunch had materialised on the tray at the end of his bed. Ron peered under the lid at the contents.

“Let me guess,” Harry said, in a dry tone borne of his current good humour. “It’s something terribly bland and wholesome. Boiled chicken?”

Ron leaned a little closer and sniffed. “I think it’s cod,” he answered. When he moved to break off a morsel to taste, Hermione slapped his hand away and glared at him in reproof. “What?”

“You can have it if you want, Ron,” he offered. “I’m not very hungry.” It was an understatement. After two and a half scones, a handful of grapes and an orange on top of breakfast, he was almost too full to move.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Harry,” Hermione said with disapproval. “You shouldn’t be skipping meals while you’re recovering.”

“I’ve been eating all morning, Hermione,” he pointed out.

“Madam Pomfrey would want you to at least _try_ to finish it,” she insisted.

Harry couldn’t help but discreetly roll his eyes at Ron, who stifled a smile.

“All right then,” Harry said, with a sigh. Maybe if he cut it up into small enough pieces and moved them about a bit, she’d be satisfied.

He climbed back into bed and pulled the tray up close. It was much easier eating this way, than from his lap in the chair. He found that out this morning with the toast, and he didn’t think he was daring enough to attempt it with something that required a knife and fork.

“You just going to sit here and watch me eat, then?” he asked. “You don’t have to, you know. If you’ve got something else you’d rather be doing.”

“Like what?” Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Stuff. Anything’s got to be more exciting than this.” Under Hermione’s gimlet eye, he forced himself to put the smallest possible flake of fish into his mouth, and simulate chewing. “Madam Pomfrey’s probably going to chuck you out in about half an hour anyway and make me take a nap.”

“Is there anything we can do for you while we’re here?” Hermione asked.

Harry thought for a moment. “Um, yeah, actually. I don’t have anything left to read.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up an almost alarming amount. “You want a _book?_ ” she asked, her tone half-incredulous, half-ecstatic. She actually _wriggled_ a little in her chair in excitement at the prospect of bringing him literature.

“Do you mind finding me something? No textbooks, nothing too heavy,” he cut in, before she could offer them. She frowned. “I can’t focus well enough to understand them, and Madam Pomfrey would take them away. She only lets me read for a little while each day; I think she’d ban me reading altogether if she caught me studying.” Harry deliberately avoided mentioning his covert nocturnal sessions.

“What would you like?” Hermione asked.

“Do you know if the Library has more books like this?” Harry asked, picking up _The Ring-Givers_ and holding it out for her to take. She opened it, and skimmed a few pages silently.

“Probably,” she answered. “If not, I can have a look in Hogsmeade once we leave.”

“You don’t have to _buy_ me one,” Harry said. “Anything that I don’t have to think too hard to follow is fine. If I’m bored enough, I’ll read it.”

“All right then. I’ll go and see what I can find.”

Once Hermione was out of sight, Harry pushed the tray towards Ron, who shot him a grateful smile and began to devour the flavourless cod with gusto. “So, how’s everything going with you two, then?”

“Fine,” Ron said. 

“Is it any different?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. “Apart from the obvious, I mean.”

Ron looked confused.

“You and Hermione,” Harry clarified. “You’re together, aren’t you?”

Ron looked a little embarrassed. “Er... not so much. No.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologised. “I just thought... after what happened when... never mind.”

“No... um... well...” Ron began, blushing red to the roots of his hair. “We... ah, tried it. It didn’t work.”

“Tried...?”

“Sex,” Ron blurted.

“Oh.” Harry felt his face flush with heat. “Right.”

“I mean, it was _good_ ,” Ron hastened to add. “It was just... weird. I dunno. We... um... decided maybe we should stay as friends.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, although he wasn’t sure why.

“’S okay,” Ron said, shrugging. “Hermione said she’d rather have done it with me the first time, than with some bloke she barely knew, and I think she’s right. It was... easier, I guess. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know what we were doing, or were rubbish at it, because we were still friends afterwards.” 

The redness had faded from Ron’s cheeks, though he still looked a bit bashful, and the tips of his ears were pink. He smiled reminiscently to himself, and Harry felt naive and inexperienced beside his now-worldly friend. He had realised, suddenly, that despite remembering his three children, he had no memory of doing what one _did_ to produce said children. And he was sure, if he’d done it, he wouldn’t be likely to forget _that_. It was just one more thing that pushed his ‘memories’ beyond the realm of possibility.

While Harry mused, the last few bites of cod vanished, and Ron sat back with a happy sigh. 

“You right, mate?” he asked, seeing Harry’s pensive expression.

“Um, yeah,” Harry said. “Listen, do you know what happened to my mokeskin pouch? I was wearing it when... but it’s not here.”

“I’ll ask,” Ron said, immediately, and disappeared around the divider.

A minute or two he reappeared, with a triumphant grin on his face and the pouch in his hand. 

“Madam Pomfrey had it in her office for safekeeping,” he explained. “Because only you can take things out of it, she didn’t know what was in it, and whether it was safe to leave out in the ward.”

Harry opened the top and rummaged inside, identifying each item by touch in turn, until his fingers closed around a cool metal orb. For a long moment he just looked down at the Snitch, sitting in the palm of his hand, before taking a deep breath and lifting it to his mouth. At the touch of his lips, the writing appeared, as clearly as the first time.

_I open at the close_

“I am about to die,” Harry whispered, his breath misting the surface with each word.

Seconds ticked by, and he waited, but the Snitch remained a Snitch, whole, glinting softly. He glanced up eventually, to see Ron watching him with a troubled expression.

“Never mind,” he reassured him. “It was just a theory I had.”


	6. And I Hold Within My Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble with questions, is that often the answer you expect isn't the one you receive.

Harry tossed and turned for several hours that night before giving in and using the hawthorn wand. Though he’d only ever seen it done, he successfully conjured a small handful of Bluebell Flames on his first attempt and tipped them into his empty water glass with a smile of satisfaction. The spell hadn’t left him feeling drained like that first _Reparo_ , several days ago, either.

Hermione had, thankfully, returned from the Library that day with something lighter than _Hogwarts: A History_ for him to read.

“Have you read it, already? I thought you might’ve done, since it’s so famous,” she asked, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve heard of it, though,” Harry said, examining _The Hobbit_ with interest. “I think one of my teachers might have read a bit of it aloud to my class when I was about nine, but not the whole thing.”

She’d also found a biography of Merlin’s life and adventures, which she dismissed as being highly fanciful and exaggerated. “But you should like it,” she concluded.

Harry had ignored the unintentional slight against his taste, and thanked her graciously.

The next morning, Remus found him nodding over a cup of tea; head drooping, eyes heavy. Harry hadn’t had the energy or the motivation to get out of bed, yet, and after taking a look at his face, Madam Pomfrey hadn’t pressed him to.

“Didn’t sleep?” Remus asked.

Harry shook his head. “Couldn’t. Tried, then I read for a while. Tried again, and I had nightmares as soon as I drifted off.” He suppressed a shudder, barely.

Rather than asking why Harry hadn’t woken Madam Pomfrey and asked for Dreamless Sleep, Remus simply sat down in the chair with an air of relief. He looked as worn and haggard as Harry felt.

“You’re still sore,” Harry said, taking in Remus’ slow and careful movements, and the cane that he tucked into the corner, to keep company with Harry’s own. “You didn’t have to come.”

Remus waved away Harry’s concern. “It’s mainly stiffness, from two days lying about, being fussed over,” he said, though Harry suspected he was lying. “Now, I see you finished _The Ring-Givers_. How did you like it?”

“It was brilliant,” Harry enthused.

“Did you know that it’s based on a poem that’s well over a thousand years old? If I find a good modern translation I’ll show it to you. Something tells me you wouldn’t care for the Old. It’s practically a different language.” Remus reached out and stroked the cover of _The Hobbit_ affectionately, as though it were a faithful dog, or an old friend. “Where are you up to in this, then?”

“They just went into the Mirkwood, after staying with the Animagus,” Harry answered. “The man who wrote this... was he a wizard?”

“Tolkien wrote a lot of truths into his work, clothed in fiction,” Remus responded. “He was a Muggle, but one of his close friends was a wizard who, shall we say, _bent_ the Statute of Secrecy more than a little.” Remus’ mouth was curved into a slightly wicked smile that suggested he rather approved of Tolkien’s friend flaunting magical law so thoroughly, and so blatantly. “But enough about that. How did things go with Ron and Hermione?”

“Well. Really well,” Harry said immediately.

“But?” Remus asked gently.

“I think I frightened them. And they frightened me, a little,” he said, honestly, though he felt a bit foolish admitting it. “I wanted to know what happened.”

“That’s understandable,” Remus said.

“Ron looked really shaken up, really upset. I’ve... I’ve not seen him like that very many times.” He thought back to the aftermath of destroying the locket.

“It’s been a difficult few weeks for them. For everybody; but especially for them.”

“Ron said I could have died,” Harry said, curious to see Remus’ reaction. He didn’t even blink.

“It was a very real possibility during that first week, yes,” Remus confirmed. “Is that what frightened you?”

“Not really. It just surprised me, that’s all.” Harry took a deep breath. “It was a bit much, seeing them. I liked it while they were here, but when they left, I just wanted to hide away and sleep.”

“And when you did sleep, you had nightmares?” Remus asked. Harry nodded. “You’ve been very sheltered so far. It was a lot of stimulation, a lot of _information_ , all at once. That it was a shock isn’t astonishing.”

Harry shrugged, and sat quietly for a few minutes. He looked into his empty mug, and wondered if he could be bothered asking Madam Pomfrey for another cup of tea. “What happened to Nagini? I didn’t want to ask, yesterday, in case I upset them again.” _And because of that, I spent last night’s broken sleep dreaming of being squeezed to death by her coils_ , he added, mentally.

“Still thinking about Horcruxes?” Remus asked, shrewdly. “And in answer to your question, _apparently_ , being stepped on by several tons of giant works as well as, if not better than, a goblin-made sword. I think Hagrid just burnt what was left of the corpse where it lay, rather than shovelling it up, in the end.”

“Hagrid stepped on Nagini?” Harry asked, confused.

Remus shook his head. “It was Grawp, I believe. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t deliberate, either. He just didn’t see the snake was there.”

Another loose end was tied up and tucked away neatly. “No heroic moment for Neville, then,” he murmured to himself.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Remus said, with a proud smile, “considering that he and my wife managed to best Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Sirius is avenged, then,” Harry said, without thinking.

“Yes, I suppose he is,” Remus agreed softly. “Would you like another tea?” he asked, gesturing at Harry’s cup.

“I’d love one, thank you.”

Harry thought about offering to go himself, to save Remus the effort of moving about, but he’d seen the slightly shuttered look that had crept into Remus’ eyes at the mention of Sirius, and deduced that he needed the moment alone, the ritual of making tea, to collect himself again.

Hands feeling oddly empty without the mug to hold, Harry opened the drawer and took out the Snitch. It lay in his palm, inert. He’d never thought about a Snitch as being somehow _alive_ , before, but this one seemed dead in comparison to those he’d chased and caught. Dead, or inactive, like a seed waiting for spring.

Harry was still staring at it when Remus returned, Levitating the two cups in front of him so that one hand was free for his cane. Remus cocked his head, clearly curious.

“Thinking about playing again?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. “Just Dumbledore trying to send me loopy,” he said, gloomily. “He left it to me in his Will. It’s a clue, or something, and I can’t figure it out.” He took a mouthful of his tea, and belatedly remembered to thank Remus for it. “I’m sure there’s something inside it.”

“What makes you think that?” Remus asked.

“There’s a message that appears on it; it’s keyed to me. But it doesn’t make any sense.”

Remus looked intrigued. “May I see it?” he asked, politely eager.

“Of course.” Harry kissed the warm metal, and once the words started to appear, placed the Snitch into Remus’ outstretched hand.

“You’ve tried _Alohomora_ , I presume?” Remus asked, holding the Snitch close to his face, examining it closely.

“Only about a million times,” Harry said, sullenly. “What?”

Remus’ face had suddenly frozen, his eyes widened a little as though he’d been struck by a thought, and he looked over at the cabinet as though it possessed the answer to the universe. “‘Riddles in the Dark’,” he murmured, before turning his gaze sharply onto Harry. “Do you mind if I try something?”

“Go for it,” Harry said.

Remus brought the Snitch up close to his mouth. “ _Obfirmo_ ,” he said, quietly but clearly.

There was an audible click. The Snitch opened up like a clam, and something pale and roughly oval lay inside. Remus crowed triumphantly, a beautiful smile blossoming on his face. He looked ten years younger as he held out his palm to show Harry the contents. “Sherbet lemon, Harry?”

Harry blinked at him, utterly confused.

“No? Oh well, then.” Remus took the boiled sweet from the shell of the Snitch and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm, Bassetts,” he said, approvingly. Another sherbet lemon appeared instantly in its place.

Harry became aware his mouth was hanging open. “It’s... it’s a _sweet dispenser?_ ”

“Incredibly well crafted,” Remus said, with all the appreciation of someone who both created experimental magical objects and had an incurable sweet tooth.

“He must have been mad,” Harry whispered, faintly.

“Of course he was, all the greatest wizards are,” Remus said placidly.

“What was it you said to it?” Harry asked.

“Basic locking incantation,” Remus answered. “And I suspect... ” He brought the Snitch close to his lips again. “ _Alohomora_.” The Snitch shut with a snap.

“It was a riddle,” Harry realised, belatedly.

“ _I open at the close_. Opens when you tell it to shut, and shuts when you tell it to open. It’s marvellous,” Remus said, happily.

“That’s so simple. I’m such an idiot,” Harry said, miserably.

“That’s enough of that,” Remus admonished cheerfully. “Do you think that maybe it takes requests? This requires further investigation.”

A little experimentation led to the discovery that indeed, it did, and that despite its small dimensions, it could produce anything they liked, up to the size of an egg.

“Oh, well. I suppose everything has limits,” Remus said, a mite disappointedly, when the Snitch failed to produce a block of Honeydukes chocolate for him. “I’ll just have to content myself with what we’ve got.”

“I thought it wasn’t possible to create food,” Harry said, in puzzlement, staring down at the Snitch. The counterpane of his bed was littered with Chocolate Frogs, Every Flavour Beans, Fizzing Whizzbees, humbugs, Scots tablet and Cadbury Creme Eggs. “I thought there was some Law or something. Hermione went on about it.”

“Oh, there is,” Remus said. “But this isn’t creating anything that doesn’t already exist. It’s just, er, _borrowing_ it.”

“Stealing it, you mean,” Harry said.

“Moving it from there to here,” Remus said, his eyes sparkling, as he popped another Chocoball in his mouth and hummed with bliss.

Harry shook his head in amused resignation. “I can’t believe they let the pair of you teach kids.”

“Well, you know what they say – send a thief to catch a thief. Children are the worst of the lot when it comes to petty theft. Ask any shopkeeper.”

“Or librarian,” Harry added.

“Indeed,” Remus responded gravely, although his eyes still twinkled.

“I still think he was bonkers,” Harry said, rolling the closed Snitch between his thumb and finger.

“Maybe,” Remus said, suddenly looking thoughtful. “Or perhaps he just knew the potential value of a gift of everlasting sweets to a young man who seems to attract Dementors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Obfirmo** \- to bolt, lock, fasten, bar_


	7. If Hope Has Flown Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's an ending, really, but the beginning of something else?

Harry was bored with the Hospital, and irritated with the monotony of lying in bed all day with nothing to do but read or play Patience. Now that he was allowed to move about, he’d begun taking turns around the ward whenever he got restless, which was increasingly often. 

Several days after the opening of the Snitch, Remus wasn’t able to visit because Teddy had been ill all night, and Tonks needed to sleep. Without even the distraction of company, his perambulations escalated into incessant pacing. Madam Pomfrey eventually got annoyed with his fidgeting, and told him he could go for a short walk through the corridors if he wished, but only if he avoided certain areas of the school which were still undergoing repair, and only if he took his cane and his wand, and promised to sit down and rest if he got tired.

Though he understood it, the stipulation of taking the wand irked him. He’d used it several times, now, to provide light to read by, but he still didn’t feel comfortable using it. As he shuffled down the corridor, he decided that when he was allowed to leave, he’d buy a new wand. One that wasn’t tainted by the war. 

However, thinking about leaving just made him realise, with a jolt, that he had nowhere to go. 

He wasn’t welcome at Privet Drive; not that he ever intended to live with the Dursleys, again. The school would be officially closed to boarding students until September. The only reason he and several other patients were still here was because they’d been too badly hurt to move, and St Mungo’s had been packed to bursting with casualties after the battle. Though he loved the Burrow, the idea of living there right now, with its noise, and its clutter, and its excess of friendly, almost-smothering affection was a bit overwhelming. He _owned_ Grimmauld Place, but the prospect of returning there, alone, to recuperate was almost laughable. He’d end up shouting at the portraits and drinking too much within a week, just like Sirius had, shut up in that mausoleum.

Harry was slouched against a wall, brooding, when a light step on the floor behind him made him turn, and he was suddenly looking into a pair of warm brown eyes in a freckled face, framed by red hair. 

“Ginny,” he breathed, not having to force a smile. 

“Madam Pomfrey said you’d be out here somewhere. Are you all right?” A slight frown creased her brow as she took in his slumped form.

“Oh, er, fine,” Harry said hastily, straightening up and placing his cane firmly on the floor. “Just, you know, resting a bit.”

“Were you headed back?” she asked, flicking her gaze down the corridor.

Harry hadn’t been going anywhere in particular, not intentionally, but now that she mentioned it, he was pointed back in the direction of the Hospital Wing. “Ah, yeah, actually,” Harry lied.

“Want me to walk with you?” Ginny asked.

“Yes! ...I mean, yeah, that’d be nice,” Harry stammered.

They started walking slowly. Ginny slipping her hand into his made his heart miss what felt like several beats, and his breath catch in his throat. 

“So, why are you here?” he asked, then realised, belatedly, that it unintentionally came out sounding a little tight and hostile.

Ginny didn’t seem to notice. “To see you,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze. “To find out if you missed me.” 

Her tone was light and teasing and fond, and the wave of emotion that rushed through Harry swept away the insecurity that had been plaguing him, the uncertainty. “I missed you. I’ve missed you so much,” he said earnestly.

Ginny’s smile seemed to light up the whole corridor, her hand squeezed his tighter, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so beautiful in his whole life; in either of his lives.

And suddenly, everything seemed very, very simple.

Harry stopped and turned to face her, their interlaced hands hanging between them, linking them together.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he began.

***

“I understand if you don’t want to talk to me,” Remus said calmly, “but you might find it helps.”

Harry didn’t bother answering, just like he hadn’t bothered getting out of bed for the last two days except to use the toilet. He heard Remus turn a page, and then silence fell again, for the space of several minutes. The Snitch was a warm, hard certainty in his fist, and he rubbed the ball of his thumb back and forth, back and forth, across its smooth surface, as if he were trying to wear a hole in it. 

“I don’t know why she doesn’t want me,” Harry heard himself murmur, brokenly.

“Most women in this day and age don’t plan on settling down before they’ve even finished their education,” said Remus, rationally. “Marrying young is old-fashioned. It doesn’t astonish me that she’s not ready. She’s only seventeen.”

“Her parents did it,” Harry countered.

“That was a different time, and Molly and Arthur had been a stable couple since their early teens,"Remus explained. "For them, it wasn’t so much a question of if they got married, but when.”

“I love her,” Harry choked out.

“I’m sure you do,” Remus said gently.

“But she doesn’t love me.” He gripped the Snitch so tightly that he wondered why it didn’t crumple in his hand like a paper cup.

“Just because she’s not ready to marry you, doesn’t mean that she doesn’t care about you.”

“She broke up with me,” Harry whispered, feeling tears stinging his eyes.

“Give her time,” Remus advised. “Give her space. For both your sakes.”

Harry opened his eyes. Remus was looking down at him; his expression soft and sympathetic, his book open, but forgotten, on his lap.

“I think I can understand why you proposed, Harry, and I can’t say I blame you for wanting the life you saw,” Remus continued, “but wishes and dreams, and reality, are very different things. As much as we’d like them to, our lives don’t simply drift away into happily-ever-afters, like fairy tales.”

“But what if it was a vision?” Harry asked.

“I would have thought that by now, you, of all people, would have realised how capricious the Divinatory Arts can be,” Remus said, with a touch of amusement.

“What if it’s meant to happen, though?” Harry insisted, holding on to the memory of the station platform, even though it was now no more than a collection of bright shards that cut him as he clung to them ever-tighter. “What if we’re destined to be together?”

“Then it will happen, and forcing it to come about before it’s due won’t do any good,” Remus concluded sensibly. “Trust me, if you think you’re ready to go rushing into marriage and a family, you’re about to receive a healthy dose of perspective.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

“Teddy has colic, and Andromeda has informed us, with no small amount of glee, that he’ll begin teething in the very near future,” Remus said ruefully, although Harry noted the strong undercurrent of love and pride.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Harry replied, a little confused.

Remus met his gaze firmly. “We – that is, Tonks and I – would like for you to come and live with us, while you’re getting back on your feet. Longer, if you wish to. Of course, if you’d rather not, that’s quite all right.”

“I’d love to,” Harry said, a warm glow blossoming in his chest.

Remus grinned at Harry’s enthusiastic response. “The house is tiny,” he warned. “It’s out in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but sheep and cows and grass as far as you can see. The nearest village is six miles away, and it’s Muggle.”

“You’ve got a Floo, though, right? And Ron and Hermione can visit?” _And Ginny, if she ever wants to see me again_ , he thought, wistfully.

“Absolutely,” Remus said immediately. “They can stay for as long as they like, so long as they don’t mind a screaming baby who demands feeds at three o’clock in the morning, and sleeping on the living room floor or in the garden in a tent.”

“They won’t mind. So long as it’s inside, not in a tent. We’ve all had enough of camping,” Harry said, emphatically.

“I imagine you would have,” Remus said, smiling. “So, are you going to wash first? I think Tonks would appreciate it if you did.”

Harry blinked. “We’re going now?”

“If you’re ready,” Remus answered. “Madam Pomfrey seems to think you’re well enough, and that you’ll recover faster now if you’re out of the Hospital, provided you take things easy and don’t overdo it.”

Without another word, Harry flung back the bedclothes, snatched up his cane and hobbled off to the bathroom.

***

Harry was grateful for Remus’ steady arm tight around him as they Apparated. Once the terrible, squeezing pressure had abated, Harry opened his eyes.

They were standing at the beginning of a gravel path that led to a tiny, white cottage with a thatched roof. It looked so naturally a part of its surroundings that if Remus had told him it had grown there, like a mushroom, he would almost have believed him. 

The yard was wild, and a little overgrown, the lawn long and sprinkled with wildflowers. Harry could see the edge of a newly planted vegetable garden down one side of the house; dark rows of chocolate brown earth fringed with green seedlings.

When he held his breath for a moment to just listen, he could hear nothing but the wind, birdsong, and the distant tinkle of cowbells. There was a loud clatter from inside, as though somebody had dropped a stack of dishes, followed by a colourful swearword in Tonks’ familiar voice and a thin wail of complaint from an infant.

“I warned you it was small,” Remus said, mistaking his silence for disappointment.

“It’s perfect,” Harry said.

Remus squeezed his shoulder, once, affectionately. “Let’s get you settled in then, and have a cup of tea.”

They strolled down the narrow path in single file, and Remus opened the door and called out a cheery “We’re home!” 

Harry couldn’t help but silently agree that yes, he felt he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Book List and Author's Afterword**_  
>  * Doctor Zhivago - _Boris Pasternak_  
>  * Lolita - _Vladimir Nabokov_  
>  * The Turn of the Screw - _Henry James_  
>  * The Ring-Givers - _W.H. Canaway_  
>  * Through the Looking Glass - _Lewis Carroll_  
>  * The Picture of Dorian Gray - _Oscar Wilde_  
>  * The Hobbit - _J.R.R. Tolkien_
> 
> _Out of the books above, the only one not readily available is_ The Ring-Givers _, which I think is most unfortunate. It's a book I'm very fond of, but which has been out of print for about thirty years, from what I can tell. Originally published in the late nineteen-fifties,_ The Ring-Givers _is a novel by[W.H. Canaway](http://www.medlarpress.com/Author-7-W-H-Canaway.html) of _[Beowulf](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beowulf) _, and is faithfully accurate to the poem. My copy is a little battered, but it_ is _a 1958 Michael Joseph first edition, complete with intact slipcover. I got it from my grandmother (who, through disinterest, had relegated it to the bookshelf in her holiday home). She had originally purchased it from a library cull sale. So, like many of the best books in my life, it has come to me by way of many sets of hands._


End file.
